Hearts Filthy Mess
by jennybel75
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Hearts Filthy Mess

**Authors**: aeron_lanart, Jennybel75, mandatorily

**Fandom**: Sherlock (BBC)

**Characters**: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade

**Pairings**: (Sherlock/Lestrade), John/Sherlock

**Rating**: NC-17 for language, concepts and smut

**Spoilers**: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1

**Warnings**: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.

**Summary**: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.

**Disclaimer**: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!

**A/N 1**: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -

_John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in._

This fic is complete and chapter posting will occur daily.

Hearts Filthy Mess

~Chapter 1~

It was late by the time John reached Baker Street. He'd stayed back at the surgery in a guilty attempt to catch up on some of the paperwork he'd generated for Sarah, then, to add insult to injury, there'd been a bloody track failure on the tube which had further delayed him getting home. He was thankful when he saw the light in the flat was still on, it meant that Sherlock was likely to be in and the place would at least be warm and welcoming. His legs felt sluggish as he climbed the stairs; there was nothing more tiring than being stuck in places you didn't really want to be, with no hint of a distraction to relieve the tedium.

He pulled his coat off as soon as he entered the flat, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door and not really paying attention to Sherlock who was in his dressing gown, muttering unintelligibly as he rummaged down the back of the sofa cushions. John decided he didn't want to know what Sherlock was looking for, he'd discovered on more than one occasion that ignorance really was bliss.

He was about to head into the kitchen to make a cup of tea when his tired brain finally registered what he had observed. He turned back toward Sherlock, who was still rummaging behind the cushions, and stared. Sherlock swanning around in his dressing gown wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, neither were bare feet in combination with said garment, but he usually wore at least his pyjamas, if not his shirt and trousers, underneath. From what John could see Sherlock's legs, at the very least, were bare which meant there was a fair amount of skin on show. Then there was his feet…John looked more carefully, certain his eyes were playing tricks, but further examination only confirmed his initial surprise; Sherlock _was_ wearing nail varnish on his toes. He would probably have collapsed in his chair at that point but there was an unfamiliar leather jacket slung across its seat, so he took a step closer in order to better scrutinize those… unexpected… toes and made do with leaning against the back of the chair instead.

The colour was a deep, midnight blue – not black as he'd first thought – and tiny, iridescent flecks in the varnish caught the light so that it glittered. The dark colour looked surprisingly good against Sherlock's fair skin. John took a deep breath. Another. The nail varnish didn't disappear.

"Sherlock, you're wearing nail varnish. On your toes!"

"It matches my fingers," said Sherlock carelessly, waving a hand similarly clad with blue, sparkly nails in John's direction before he returned to searching down the back of the sofa for whatever item he was missing.

"Right," mumbled John to himself. It wasn't that he had anything against Sherlock – or guys in general for that matter – wearing nail varnish, anything but, if truth be known, and especially if it was coupled with a bit of eyeliner. It was just that it wasn't something he'd expected to find in evidence at home. His musing was interrupted by a shout from the direction of Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock, will you hurry up? I need to do your hair." It was a voice John recognised only too well and he couldn't help but gape in surprise, he'd never thought of Greg Lestrade as being the sort of person who would be offering to mess with anyone's hair, least of all Sherlock's.

"One minute!" Sherlock yelled in reply from where he now knelt on the sofa, one hand invisible beneath the cushions.

"Why does _he_ want to do your hair?" John asked. He knew he sounded somewhat bewildered but he decided that was absolutely fine; he _was_ bewildered.

"Because I can't manage it on my own due to not being familiar with the technique. Obvious. Why else would I need his help?"

"Oh, right, of course." John nodded sagely, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.

Another shout came from Sherlock's room. "Sherlock. Hair!"

Sherlock's arm disappeared a little further down the back of the sofa, then his face lit with triumph and he pocketed the whatever-it-was he'd been looking for and dashed toward his room.

John headed for the kitchen in Sherlock's wake; the need for a strong cup of tea had passed from the realms of being an indulgence to being essential. He debated the need for a tot of something alcoholic _in_ his tea – entirely for medicinal purposes – but dismissed the thought. The situation might be odd, but that could be said for much of his life since he'd moved into Baker Street with Sherlock, and this didn't really seem all that much stranger than normal. John resolutely ignored the insidious voice inside his head that whispered "yet".

Mug in hand, John settled onto the sofa. He could have moved the leather jacket and sat in his own chair but it didn't face the kitchen – and therefore Sherlock's room – and John wanted to see just what the hell was going to emerge from there, without it sneaking up on him unawares.

As it turned out, Greg, at least, wouldn't have been at risk of sneaking up on John; he could be heard well before he became visible. Greg positively _jingled_ as he walked and John couldn't help but do a double take as he appeared.

Instead of the Greg Lestrade he knew, he was confronted with a vision in black that looked nothing like the DI's crumpled norm. The jingling came from both the spiked straps around Greg's sturdy, well worn boots and the belt that sat snugly around his hips over the top of well fitted, but not excessively tight, leather trousers. The subtle reinforcing around the knees and signs of wear indicated that the trousers, like the boots, weren't just an affectation but were – or had been – actually used for the purpose for which they'd been designed. The t-shirt that finished the ensemble was tight enough to demonstrate that, despite the years of abuse by his job and bad habits, Greg's body was not something he needed to hide. He'd not done anything particularly dramatic with his hair but it was in an artful state of disarray that suited him.

John recognised the name of the band on the t-shirt – the lead singer was the first woman over whom he and Harry had fallen out, both of them having had a serious crush on Siouxsie Sioux at the time – but he couldn't quite make out the pattern. He squinted a bit as he leaned forward in an effort to get a better look at the design that was adorning Greg's chest. When the realisation of exactly _what_ he was looking at hit him, he blinked, just to make sure his eyes were working correctly; they were. The slow and lazy smile that spread over Greg's face was challenging, and John met the dark eyes defiantly; there was no way he was going to allow himself to be embarrassed just because Greg had pictures of sperm on his t-shirt. He was a doctor for God's sake, he dealt with potentially more embarrassing things on a daily basis without turning a hair; he'd just never thought that _Greg_ would be the one to wear such a thing. He sighed; so much for not making assumptions and aspiring to be non-judgemental, he obviously needed to put a bit more work into that.

John's eyes flicked over to the black leather jacket on his chair before fixing back on Greg; it was now obvious who owned it. He felt a bit peeved when Greg laughed at him.

"God, you should see your face! Good to know I can still surprise the unflappable doctor Watson."

John tried to settle his features back into an expression that approached his usual one; he wasn't entirely convinced it was successful.

"It's just… Well, um. You look a bit different than normal."

Greg gave him a cheeky grin that made the years fall away from his face, giving John a glimpse of the person Greg might have been when he'd first worn similar clothes, rather than the harassed DI he'd become and with whom John was more familiar.

"It's all my gear though," he said, confirming what John had thought.

"Do you still have a bike?" John asked; he could just imagine the looks on Donovan and Anderson's faces if Greg turned up to a crime scene on a motorbike, dressed in a similar fashion. John had no problem admitting – to himself – that he'd quite like to see that.

"Not at the moment; I wasn't getting the chance to go for any decent rides. I keep promising myself I'll do something about that, but…"

"You should; it's a good look on you." John gave Greg a quick smile, then settled back into a more comfortable position on the sofa. "So, what's the reason for all this?" he said, waving his hand in Greg's general direction.

"A case. There's been a spate of attacks on guys who fit a certain profile. So far there have been three attacks, two of them murders and the other attempted. All the victims were members of what I suppose you could call the alternative community, had been to the same club prior to being attacked, though they weren't regulars, and they all wore one of these." Greg removed a band from his wrist and held it out. John took it and looked more closely. It was black, no surprise there, and embossed with the letters S. O. P. H. I. E. in white. He returned it and Greg slipped it back onto his wrist.

"Sophie?" John asked.

"Stamp Out Prejudice, Hatred and Intolerance Everywhere. It's a charity started in the name of a girl – Sophie Lancaster – who was beaten to death just for looking different. They aim to spread tolerance of subcultures through education."

"Can't fault that."

"No you can't. As you can imagine it's a cause close to many people's hearts. There've been people from every kind of community you can imagine working together on this – from goths, geeks and gamers to Wiccans and even the occasional Zoroastrian; it's touched everyone." He sighed. "Even so, it sometimes seems to be too little, too late."

"You do what you can," John said gently; he completely understood feelings of 'too little, too late' – he dealt with them himself far too frequently, after all.

"Yeah, I do, and I'm glad I'm in a position to be able to make at least some difference."

"You and me both." John took a couple of deep breaths and decided to move the conversation along. "So, you're going to the club to check things out. How did you manage to end up with this one, luck of the draw?"

"I know one of the DJs from my moshing days. I used to be a huge Damned fan, followed them all around the country. I still like them but I steer clear of the mosh pits now, I'm getting too old to cope with a load of bouncy, lunatic kids who are smashed out of their brains. Plus, at my age, I don't think 'I broke my leg in a mosh pit' would be a good thing to have to tell my bosses, and if you don't come out of a Damned mosh pit at least slightly battered and bruised, it's been a quiet gig."

John could tell by the way Greg shifted without quite meeting his eyes that there was something else, some essential piece of information Greg had chosen not to share. He debated giving him _the look_, however, he realised it would more than likely be a futile waste of effort; Greg had known Sherlock long before John had come on the scene and would probably be immune to any sort of scowl that could be executed by a human – or even Sherlock's – face. He decided it would be far easier just to ask.

"There's something you aren't telling me," John said. "Something about the victims and why _you've_ got the case."

John didn't glare, but he also didn't take his eyes off Greg and maintained the sort of level gaze that he knew said 'and no bullshitting me, mate' loud and clear. Greg sighed.

"The victims were all gay – or perceived to be gay, one of them was bisexual – around six feet tall and kind of androgynous looking."

"And while _you_ don't exactly fit the androgynous-looking profile, not usually, and especially not dressed like that…"

"Sherlock does. Exactly."

"That explains the nail varnish."

"Just wait until you see the rest of him."

"Really? I might not survive." John intentionally kept his voice light but he was more than half serious. He'd always had a thing about androgynous guys in make up, specifically eyeliner – or guyliner as his mates had called it – which he'd put down to a life-long obsession with David Bowie, too many drunken nights spent watching the Rocky Horror show and discovering Placebo in his twenties. He wasn't sure how he felt about being confronted with Sherlock dressed in a way that would have fuelled a fantasy or two when he was younger (and still might, if he ever allowed himself to indulge). He clamped down on the half-formed thought brutally: he was not even going to contemplate taking that path, for that way lay madness, the encroaching poison of bitterness and probably a lot of furtive wanking. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear at the outset that he wasn't interested in relationships and John was not going to torture himself with the close-but-unobtainable like that.

His maudlin train of thought was broken by the startlingly cheerful sounding jingle that signalled Greg moving, this time towards John's chair and the jacket that had been flung across it.

John's gaze was drawn back to Greg's belt; with his seated position on the sofa they were on the same level and there was no way he could avoid looking at it. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to work out the pattern on the metal discs. They looked like ancient shield roundels, even though the design was nothing he was familiar with, which struck a chord with his military side and also seemed entirely appropriate for Greg, who was as much a modern equivalent of a knight-protector as someone could be. Loose metal bars were arranged between the discs which, he guessed, were what provided the merry jingling noise that accompanied Greg as he moved. There were also a couple of d-rings attached at various places and, he noticed with a smirk, there was a set of handcuffs attached to one of them, eminently practical and just a tiny bit hot.

John almost shook his head in disbelief.

"Those aren't…" He paused, and took a closer look at the handcuffs. "Never mind. Those obviously _are_ your work cuffs."

"Of course they're my work cuffs; I'm bloody working! I'm not dressed like this for fun, sunshine."

John folded his arms and shot Greg an appraising glance and a quick grin that said 'like I really believe that'. Greg grinned back at him.

"OK, OK. Not _just_ for fun. It's not a crime to enjoy reliving your misspent youth occasionally."

John couldn't help but laugh. "It isn't if you can still get away with it; not everyone can."

Greg shrugged. "I suppose I'm just lucky, then. So, we aren't going to be treated to misspent youth a la Watson any time soon?"

"Dear God, no. It was frightening enough the first time around. Remember, I had the bad half of the 80s in my formative years." Greg didn't seem convinced and John couldn't ignore the expression of interested inquiry on his face. He sighed. "Two things; hair metal and acid wash jeans. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, but it was truly horrifying."

Greg chuckled. "You might actually have a point."

"Precisely. So, what about Sherlock?" John knew he was fishing for information but he was hesitant to use a more direct approach and push the point with Greg; he didn't want to sound like he was overly interested in what his flatmate was wearing in case it came across as too damn creepy. The thing was, whenever Sherlock was concerned he was a great believer in the old chestnut that forewarned was forearmed and he felt that this situation was no different.

"You'll see," Greg said with a wicked grin before he grabbed the leather jacket off John's chair and wriggled into it. John wasn't entirely sure he liked the sound of that – or the look on Greg's face – but he found himself distracted from thinking too much more about it by Greg's jacket. It was a simple black leather biker jacket and fitted the rest of his look, being essentially functional and obviously both used and loved, though as Greg settled it more comfortably onto his shoulders, something else caught John's eye.

"Stand still for a minute," he said. John scrambled off the sofa and closed the distance between them. Greg had not only obligingly stopped moving, he had also turned his back toward John, providing a clearer view of the flash of light and colour that had caught his attention.

The back of the jacket had been painted in loving detail with what John presumed was an album cover; it depicted a cloaked and hooded woman standing in a graveyard, the sky behind her heavy with clouds. Above the art, written in curling, gothic script, was the band name – The Damned, which wasn't a surprise – and below it was the word 'Phantasmagoria' in the same script.

John leaned closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at the finer details of the painting. It was an inspired piece of art and he barely resisted reaching out to brush his fingers across the painted leather; Greg smiled at him over his shoulder.

"That was their 1985 album, when they went a bit gothic," he said.

John spluttered. "You can't tell me you still fit into a jacket you had back in 1985! Besides, it isn't battered enough to be that old."

"Are you casting aspersions on my less than youthful physique, doctor Watson?"

"Um…" John was glad Greg seemed to find it funny and didn't appear to require an intelligible answer.

"Nah, you're right. This is my fourth Damned jacket – I get a new one every decade or so. I was listening to Phantasmagoria when the time came to get this one done, which is why it ended up on the back."

"It's a gorgeous piece of work."

"Yeah, it is. I'm lucky the artist is willing to do a favour for an old friend, she's moved onto much bigger things now."

John took a breath to reply, but found himself beaten to it by a mellifluous voice that disconcertingly came from right behind him.

"But not necessarily better."

**A/N 2** - If you would like a better idea of the sort of thing Greg is wearing, please toddle along to the Lestrade Visual Aids post at www [.] Aeron-lanart [.] livejournal [.] com . For more information on Sophie Lancaster, please go here www [.] sophielancasterfoundation [.] com . Sadly, Sophie's story is not one that's been made up for the fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**~ Chapter 2 ~**

Sherlock. John had been so engrossed in studying Greg's jacket that he hadn't heard the sound of footsteps approaching them. Sherlock was close – too close for comfort – and John's heart was pounding with a weird mix of anticipation and dread as he considered what might greet him as he turned around, especially as he realised that in his current position his eyes would be more on a level with Sherlock's waist than his face. However advantageous straightening up completely would be, it appeared to be beyond his physical ability at that point in time, so he turned slowly, his head seeming to pivot of its own accord, one thought overwhelming his brain's capacity to work the rest of his body. _Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook_. He settled for half leaning/half perching against the back of the chair and hoped against hope that his reason for doing so would not be too obvious.

If John had thought himself mentally prepared for Sherlock's appearance and its possible effect, he would have been proven woefully, earth-shatteringly wrong but, as he'd actually been worrying that Sherlock would look far too much like the living embodiment of a wet dream fuelled by the darker corners of his psyche, he wasn't exactly surprised. By the judicious application of a bit of military backbone and the not-so-surreptitious use of the chair behind him, he was at least able to maintain a precarious hold on remaining upright, even though his legs gleefully informed him that, no, they weren't really that interested in supporting his weight any more.

Sherlock no longer looked like _Sherlock_. Gone were the slim-fitting shirt and the expensively 'casual' suit. They'd been replaced by…skin – lots of pale, smooth looking skin – and clothes that left very little to the imagination; Sherlock might as well have been naked.

John didn't know where to look first, so he let his eyes roam over Sherlock's torso, without once daring to go as far as his face, noting that despite his slender frame he was in no way worryingly skinny. Sherlock seemed to be content to let John stare; the annoying sod had probably known exactly what sort of response his appearance would elicit. John swallowed, licked at his suddenly dry lips, and tried to bring his faltering thought processes and hammering heart under some sort of control; he couldn't afford to react like this, Sherlock would notice in an instant. Much to John's relief, Sherlock took a few steps away from him which meant that although he was still getting an eyeful, at least he didn't have to contend with Sherlock's body heat and scent within his personal space.

"An effective disguise, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock's voice was pitched low, silky and feather-soft, and it sent unexpected tingles down John's spine. He nodded helplessly, eyes still fixed on the expanse of fishnet-covered skin in front of him.

"Oh, yes. Definitely," he said, not daring to even peek at Greg with his peripheral vision. John didn't want to see what he was making of this, pity or amusement would be equally unpalatable.

The added distance between them meant that John could gather more of an overall impression of Sherlock's outfit, rather than being totally overwhelmed simply by his mere presence. In John's opinion, Sherlock's legs were sinfully long anyway but clad as they were in tight, glossy pvc trousers that buckled down the side and fit like a second skin, they seemed to go on for miles. The trousers fit tightly around the ankle, drawing the eye down to the studded ankle boots that were almost like winkle pickers in style, but with a less pointed toe. In John's opinion they were far more elegant and suited Sherlock much better than the clunky, thick-soled, many-buckled boots that most of the goths he'd seen around Camden and elsewhere seemed to prefer. He let his eyes drift upward again, this time more prepared for the effect of having so much of Sherlock's fair skin on show. It wasn't as if he was truly bare-chested, he _was_ wearing a t-shirt, but because it was fishnet it exposed just as much skin as it covered and the black mesh only served to make Sherlock's skin appear even more luminous. Some decency was preserved, however, by the addition of a kind of waistcoat, although that in itself was doing strange things to John's brain.

In overall style, it was a fairly simple waistcoat; cotton canvas with a high neck, mandarin collar and a plain zip running down its full length at the front. The zip was open, displaying Sherlock's fishnet covered chest to its best advantage. If the rest of the waistcoat had been as simple in style, John would not have had such an issue but it was criss-crossed by vinyl straps over what appeared to be the entire surface. There were further straps, fixed with etched silver studs, looped over the shoulders and around the sides to fit snugly against Sherlock's ribs. In John's mind it was somewhat reminiscent of a straitjacket and all he could think about was what Sherlock would look like if he were restrained - preferably on John's bed.

John wanted - no, he _needed_ - to sit down before he fell down, but he remained standing. Just. He gave himself a few moments to gather what was left of his composure and steeled himself for the ultimate test; looking Sherlock in the face without losing it completely. He raised his eyes.

Sherlock reassuringly looked mostly like himself. John had half expected white face, heavy, black eye makeup and lipstick; he should have realised that Sherlock would do nothing so crass as that. His makeup was subtle, accentuating his features perfectly. Just a touch of sheer red to the lips that made them look freshly bitten rather than painted, a whisper of powder that did little beyond keeping shine at bay, liquid black eyeliner and mascara that made his ridiculously long eyelashes stand out even more than usual. John didn't notice the sweep of dark blue glitter across Sherlock's eyelids until he blinked; it matched his nail varnish.

Having made it up as far as Sherlock's eyes, John felt it was safe to let his gaze drift higher. Greg had managed to do something vaguely Robert Smith-esque with Sherlock's hair: it was messy and _big_, with no sign of the usual curls, which made John suspect it had been crimped before being backcombed to within an inch of its life. He dreaded to think how much hairspray must be keeping it in place; Sherlock was probably inflammable.

He looked… good. Too good.

John hoped his face didn't betray the roiling of his emotions. He doubted it, because he had never been able - from the very first day he met Sherlock - to hide his appreciation and wonder, even when it wasn't entirely appropriate. He didn't dare to open his mouth to speak, sure that anything that fell out would be incoherent babble, but Sherlock was watching him with such an expectant expression that he found he had to say something, _anything_ in fact; that was the effect Sherlock had on him.

"Nice boots," he mumbled. Sherlock grinned, but Greg sounded like he was almost choking with laughter. John sighed, wanting the floor to swallow him up, no doubt he'd unintentionally made some sort of major gothic faux-pas.

Once his laughter was under control, Greg moved closer to Sherlock and with a soft, almost intimate smile, placed a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock didn't protest, rather, he seemed to lean into the touch and returned the smile in kind.

"Ready?" Greg asked.

"Almost. I just need to get my coat." Greg removed his hand from Sherlock's back, giving his arm a quick squeeze before he pushed him gently in the direction of his room.

"Don't be all night about it," he said.

Sherlock paused briefly, threw a quick wink over his shoulder, and headed towards his room.

John watched the exchange in uncomfortable silence as his heart plummeted. If he'd felt like he was burning up before, the attention Greg had paid to Sherlock - and worse, Sherlock's response - was like being doused with icy water. He felt like a third wheel, or the gatecrasher at a private party and now he really _did_ need to sit down. He shuffled round his chair to take a seat in it. Greg didn't seem to notice his discomfort.

"Think we'll pass muster?"

John took a deep breath before answering and focused on his knees. He couldn't face Greg.

"You both certainly look the part," he replied.

"I'm glad, I would have hated all that effort to go to waste."

"Oh it's not gone to waste. Definitely not. Anything but." Oh God, he was on the verge of babbling again. John bit his lip in an effort to keep mum, he had no idea what he might inadvertently let slip if he didn't.

"Good. Oh well, here's his highness. We'll be out of your hair in a minute. Should be a nice quiet night in for you, for a change."

John swivelled in his chair in order to look. For some reason he'd half expected to see Sherlock in his usual coat - a stupid idea if ever there was one - so to see him without it was something of a surprise. Just about the only thing the coat he _was_ wearing had in common with the other one was that it was long and swishy which was where all resemblance ended.

Like the waistcoat, this coat was mostly canvas, and its shape bore some similarity to a priest's cassock. However, no priest would have worn this particular concoction of cotton, pvc, laces and buckles unless they were feeling particularly demonic. John supposed that was the entire point; it also suited Sherlock very well.

He spied Greg's nod out of the corner of his eye and when he glanced more fully in that direction he caught what looked like a smug, almost possessive, grin on the other man's face.

"Come on, Princess," said Greg. "It's time to go." He headed out of the door to wait on the landing. John watched as Sherlock made to follow without a backward glance. He couldn't stand it.

"Sherlock…" He hated that he sounded like he was begging, but Sherlock did at least pause on the threshold, one hand on the door frame and body half-turned toward John. Once he actually _had_ Sherlock's attention, John found himself at a loss for words. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he guessed that most of them would be unwelcome - to both Sherlock and Greg - so he took refuge in voicing his most simple and heartfelt wish. "Look, take care, will you?" To John's complete and utter surprise, there was no acerbic remark about sentiment thrown at him in response, only a firm nod and a gentle smile that seemed to promise John the world. In the next moment Sherlock was gone in a swirl of coat, clattering down the stairs after Greg.

Words drifted upward in their wake, floating through the still open door.

"You know, you almost look good enough to eat like that."

That was Greg, of course, managing to say what John could not. Damn him. John hated himself just a little bit more. He was so lost in self-loathing that he almost missed Sherlock's answer.

"You'll just have to wait. Right now, it would mess up my hair."

Greg's laughter drowned out anything else that Sherlock might have said until the rattle-thunk of the front door closing cut off all sound.

A/N 2: If you said "Nice Boots," to someone in the goth clubbing days of the 80s and 90s you were basically asking "Want to fuck?". The Greg Lestrade in this fic would no doubt have been aware of this tradition.

If you'd like to get a better idea of what Sherlock is wearing, please take yourselves along to the Sherlock Visual Aids post www [.] aeron-lanart [.] livejournal [.] com [/] 227840 [.] html


	3. Chapter 3

~ Chapter 3 ~

John realised he was shaking like a leaf. It was more than the return of his hand tremor, his whole body was wracked with it, while his thoughts chased themselves in useless circles around and around ad infinitum. He buried his face in his trembling hands and wished he had the faintest idea of how he'd managed to get himself into such a mess without even realising it.

Eventually, by dint of forcing his rational mind to believe that he'd been imagining things no matter what he actually _felt_, John managed to calm down enough to enable himself to stand, walk into the kitchen, and make another, much needed, cup of tea. Yes, it was habit, but he had become so used to being betrayed by his body in recent years that he knew taking refuge in habits was sometimes the only way in which he could cope. Drinking inordinate amounts of tea was far less destructive than the vast majority of alternatives and if it stopped him from sleeping he didn't care, in his current state of mind he classed that as an advantage. He headed back into the living room, his chair, and the telly; if he was lucky there would be a repeat of Top Gear on, but he'd make do with almost anything for the company. There was no point in going to bed, his thoughts and the ghosts of possibility would clamour to be heard in the silence and haunt him too much for restful sleep to be a likely occurrence.

The roar of car engines and Clarkson's latest tirade had faded into the background, but John couldn't bring himself to care; he was on the cusp between sleeping and waking, imagination and reality, where anything seemed possible.

He stepped into the darkness…

_The club is dim, the atmosphere thick with smoke from the machines and the sort of music you_ feel _rather than hear, with the bar a brightly lit oasis to one side. Sherlock leans nonchalantly against the counter, one hand wrapped around a bottle of something, the other resting on Greg's leather-clad arm. He smiles, head bent to listen as Greg murmurs into his ear. He's not wearing the coat, so Sherlock is on display in all his fishnet and pvc glory; John can't believe that there isn't already a line of people wanting to get into his trousers. Maybe Greg is scaring them off. Sherlock laughs at something Greg says, his face open and carefree, and John wishes_ he _could make Sherlock laugh like that more often; it hurts. Next minute, Sherlock is weaving sinuously through the crowd towards the dance floor, one of Greg's hands in contact with some part of him at all times; shoulder, wrist, back, hip – to eventually slide down and cup the pvc clad arse as Sherlock stops, turns, and begins to dance. It's mesmerising, and John can see other eyes turn in Sherlock's direction as he writhes against Greg to a beat John can't hear. He watches them move together until all sight of them is lost to the billowing smoke and the press of other bodies._

John came back to himself with a start. He was breathless, his heart was pounding and he had a raging hard on straining at the fabric of his jeans. Had what he'd seen been a dream or daydream? He had no idea, and, either way, the evidence was just as incriminating. Jesus Holy Fuck, he was in trouble, big trouble, and he doubted that Sherlock would realise that _he_ was the cause of it, or worse, and more likely if he was honest with himself, wouldn't care if he did. John turned the sound down on the telly and flicked through the channels, skipping some astronomy programme that he'd ordinarily watch because he didn't think he could deal with Brian Cox in his current state either. He eventually settled on something about the history of the Vikings in the Scottish Isles. It would hopefully be interesting enough to distract him from his unwanted erection and keep him at least semi-awake. Hopefully. With any luck.

_The next time sleep reaches out her tendrils to claim him Greg is nowhere in sight. Sherlock makes his way to the bar, where the bartender hands him a note and a drink. They chat for a moment before she points in the direction of a shadowy figure sitting in a dark, secluded corner of the club. Sherlock nods his thanks, takes a sip of the drink and walks towards his seeming admirer_.

_John wants to scream at him to stop, that can't he see he's walking into a trap and that the drink is obviously drugged, but he can't, he's not there._

_He wonders where Greg is and how he could have left Sherlock alone like this. He knows that Sherlock can take care of himself under normal circumstances, but this is far from normal. John remembers how honestly helpless Sherlock was when Irene drugged him and he's got enough experience as a doctor to have a good guess at what the drink is spiked with and what its effects will be._

_The man is seated in a booth at the back of the club, secluded from view by the walls of the booth on three sides and a structural support pole on the fourth, which effectively blocks the opening from being visible to most of the rest of the club. John knows it's the perfect place for an ambush, why can't Sherlock see that ? He sees_ everything, _he has to know it's a trap, Greg has to know it's a trap... and just where the fuck_ is _Greg?_

_Sherlock takes another mouthful of his drink as he sits down, laying the note on the table with a tap of his fingers and a knowing smile, which the man returns. They talk for a while, Sherlock continuously sipping from his glass. John sees him edging closer to his companion, laying his hand over the other mans' and leaning in to say something in his ear. Sherlock moves back with a smile but John can tell there's something wrong. Sherlock blinks a couple of times and shakes his head minutely before raising his hand to his temple. John wants to take the other man down, he wants to yell at Sherlock to get out of there but all he can do is watch, powerless, as the scene unfolds._

_His companion obviously says something to him, but Sherlock shakes it off with a laugh and a squeeze of his hand, twining their fingers together. Sherlock gets a smile in return and is pulled in closer as the man untangles their fingers and moves his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck._

_The man makes a swift motion with his right arm and John catches the glint of light off a blade. Sherlock tries to move out of the way, but the space is too cramped for an effective dodge and a thin, bright line of red appears across Sherlock's chest. Greg is there in the space of a heartbeat, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and delivers a shattering blow to the man's arm. Greg, the knight-protector. Greg, who John knows would never put Sherlock at risk. Greg, who now cuffs the assailant and sends him off with the uniformed officers who have also magically appeared, and pauses, just briefly, to touch his fingers to Sherlock's face and whisper something in his ear before he follows the uniforms out of the club._

_As John surfaces and the dream starts to dissolve he sees Sherlock's hand move to the spot Greg caressed and the heartbreakingly tender smile that adorns his face as his fingers touch skin._

The slamming of a car door and noise of the street wafting in through the open window permeated his consciousness, bringing him back to the living room and its familiar surrounds. He blinked muzzily at the telly and noticed that the Vikings seemed to have been replaced with one of the plethora of police procedurals that clogged up the airwaves these days. He tried to fix his gaze on the screen, wanting to concentrate on the plot, something, anything other than what his mind had just shown him.

But sleep is a cruel mistress and John shifted slightly as his eyes drifted closed again. Visions of Sherlock in trouble, Sherlock injured, Greg rescuing him and caressing him rising up unbidden to play across the screen of his eyelids.

The sirens on the telly began to wail. Despite their mournful sound, he found he could resist her no longer and, unwelcome and unasked, she drew him back down into her traitorous embrace.

_As the vision coalesces this time, he sees Greg and Sherlock apparently alone in some sort of office. Sherlock is naked to the waist, perching on an uncomfortable looking chair, while Greg hovers far too close to him for John's comfort, considering the amount of skin that Sherlock has on display. John flinches with a different kind of pain when he realises that Greg is checking Sherlock over and cleaning him up. He's the doctor, it's _his_ responsibility to deal with Sherlock's wounds, not some mere _policeman_ with a mickey-mouse first aid certificate and ulterior motives. His longing to be there, to do something, is palpable and he shudders as the force of it hits him. Even so, the part of him that doesn't want to scream and rage and _tear_ Greg away from Sherlock notices that the leather jacket is nowhere to be seen and that the area is as clean as possible. Greg is wearing disposable gloves as he tenderly cleans the nasty looking, but essentially superficial, wound on Sherlock's chest, murmuring constant reassurances as he works. Sherlock seems oddly quiescent, his eyes heavy lidded, accepting Greg's touch without apparent protest. John reminds himself of the spiked drink, but Sherlock doesn't appear drugged, he just seems to be revelling in the sensation of Greg's hands on his skin, which are lingering far longer than is strictly necessary in John's professional opinion. Greg strips off the gloves as soon as the wound is dressed, one hand returning to rest, skin to skin, above Sherlock's heart. He's whispering furiously, an intent look in his dark eyes, but all Sherlock does is smile as one of _his_ hands shifts from his lap to cover Greg's where it is pressed against his skin. Their eyes meet and there is no mistaking the glut of emotions swirling between them. John is distraught, unable to do anything but reluctantly witness the evidence of a devotion that dashes the hopes he never knew he had until now. He wants to hate them both, but for all that envy consumes him, he can't even bring himself to feel that way about Greg, let alone Sherlock. Greg's other hand gently cups Sherlock's face and Sherlock _leans_ into the caress, never once breaking eye contact. As Greg's hand slips around to cradle the back of Sherlock's head, he moves closer and closer until they are only a breath apart. John can't bear to see more so he almost breathes a sigh of relief as his sight greys out and he jerks awake._

John was up and out of his chair in a matter of seconds, trying to blink away the visions he'd seen. He turned the telly off with a violent click of the remote and threw it rather too forcefully across the room where it hit the desk and dislodged some papers.

John tried to calm himself as he paced backwards and forwards across the lounge. What he'd just seen was a dream, of course it was, but he knew it had been based in reality. The way Sherlock and Greg had interacted with each other tonight had made it quite obvious what was going on, John's brain had simply seen fit to provide him with a few more details, perfidious organ that it was. And it was still whispering insidious things to him, reminding him of all the little moments he'd witnessed between Sherlock and Greg at crime scenes - gestures, comments and looks that, with the clarity of hindsight, were laced with a great deal of meaning and feeling.

Even right from the start, the first time he met Greg, there'd been a subtle intensity in the way he and Sherlock had interacted, he just hadn't recognised it for what it was. How could he? "Oh but that's not how it stayed," his oh-so-helpful inner voice murmured. Damn bloody thing never knew when to be quiet. He shook his head, trying to deny the fact that he had known, _observed_ but had conveniently pushed it all aside; it was less painful that way, rather than having to admit he had been aware of the truth all along.

As if it hadn't already done enough damage for one night the bloody voice inside of him would not cease its insidious whispering. "If you don't believe me, I can remind you - I can show you exactly what you saw." He was helpless against the flood of images that poured through the cracks in the wall he'd put up around those particular memories, and how could he defend himself against his own mind?

_He remembered Sherlock whispering into Greg's ear at the Yard, low and intimate, at the end of the Connie Prince case; focusing almost entirely on Greg and barely sparing John a glance. He'd noticed at the time, had even tried to talk to Sherlock about it, but he just couldn't get the words out and it had ended up going the way so many 'discussions' with Sherlock did – badly – to the extent that they'd just ended up arguing about some nonsense thing. Then later, while they stood over the body of Alex Woodbridge on the Thames foreshore, he'd seen it again, the _intensity_ of focus that Sherlock turned on Greg, even while he was insulting him._

John realised he'd unconsciously given up at that point and had opted to ignore what was in front of him, to squash it down and rationalise it away. It was as if his subconscious had decided that if he didn't acknowledge it, if he paid it no mind, it would stop existing. Right?

Wrong. Obviously.

He only had to look at where it had led him to realise just _how_ wrong he had been.

He paused in his pacing as a sick wave of feeling overtook him and he slumped back into his chair. How had he never realised the extent to which his feelings towards Sherlock had changed? He knew he was good at compartmentalising and rationalising, skills required as a doctor and reinforced by the army, but he'd never expected that he would be able to fool himself to this extent.

Sighing, he dropped his head into his hands, it didn't matter what he felt anyway, it was clear that Sherlock and Greg were together and that his affection would be unwelcome. He would let Sherlock know it was fine, it was all fine, he thought with a bitter twist to his lips. He'd also offer to move out; it was the least he could do. The conversation could wait until daylight though; his wounds were a little too raw to want to scrape over them again so soon. In the morning he'd just have to take a teaspoon of concrete, and fucking harden up a bit, tell Sherlock what he had to and start looking for somewhere new to live.

Decision made, he turned, heading for the stairs and the room that had become his true home. Halfway there he paused, attention caught by the scraping sound of a key in the front door lock.

A/N 2: mandatorily has done a brilliant vid that ties in with this chapter; please go here (www [.] mandatorily [.] livejournal [.] com [/] 109366 [.] html) to view it. If you've read this chapter, I don't suppose I have to warn you that it isn't a happy, fluffy vid.


	4. Chapter 4

~ Chapter 4 ~

Adrenaline crashed through John in a useless fight or flight response; he'd left it too long to flee, even to the relative safety of his own room, and there was no way he was going to fight either Greg or Sherlock. If nothing else, the adrenaline at least swept away his exhaustion and gave the fevered meanderings of his thoughts some clarity and direction. Hand on the banister, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tried not to berate himself for being forty types of fool. Then, as footsteps, laughter and voices made their way up from the hall, he turned and headed back down the stairs from his room. If this was going to be a battle of sorts, which almost seemed inevitable now, he would choose his ground carefully, and that was not going to be on the stairs and at a disadvantage. He headed for the kitchen; tea could be both weapon and shield and right now he needed _something_ to do that wasn't out of character or both Greg and Sherlock would notice his turmoil the instant they laid eyes on him. He was pleased his hands didn't shake as he filled the kettle and switched it on.

Greg and Sherlock barrelled through the flat door on a tide of laughter. It was like a knife to John's guts, but he could hide it, just like he'd hidden so many other wounds – physical and otherwise – over the years. And hide it he _would_ for the sake of friendship, for love, no matter how much it hurt.

"Successful night, then?" He asked, keeping his voice light. Greg whirled 'round to face the kitchen in shock and John would have laughed at the expression on his face if he hadn't felt so agitated.

"John! Why…?"

"He couldn't sleep, why else?" Sherlock replied in a flat, disinterested tone of voice. He was still wrapped in the long black coat and looked just as sinfully gorgeous as when he'd left, even though his hair had deflated slightly. "Worried, I expect."

John bit back a particularly vicious curse and took a deep breath. Yes, of course he had been worried, even without the visions provided by his unhelpful brain, but with the sort of emphasis Sherlock put on 'worried', it seemed that 'how tiresome' was almost audible. He sighed.

"Sherlock, I don't 'worry' about you; I exhibit genuine and professional concern for your welfare based on the evidence that you have virtually none for yourself."

"You have to admit he has a point, Sherlock," said Greg with a twitch of his mouth that wasn't – quite – a smile.

"I admit nothing." Sherlock flounced off in the direction of the sofa and threw himself into its squishy embrace, coat and all. Greg shook his head in what appeared to be fond exasperation and turned back towards John. He looked tired, but surprisingly peaceful which, in John's experience, wasn't exactly normal during a case.

"So?" John prompted.

"Yeah, it was a successful night. We got our guy and emerged relatively unscathed, always a bonus."

John really didn't like the sound of that.

"Relatively unscathed?" He knew how he sounded, a lot of junior medics and army personnel would recognise the cold and steely tone. Greg obviously did too, and took a step backwards which pleased a part of John no end, especially in his current frame of mind.

"He had a knife, but no serious damage was done."

Icy fingers ran down John's spine. _Nonononono_. That couldn't be right. It was impossible. He'd been dreaming. That's all it was, a dream, not reality. But… He stomped on his emotions, took refuge behind a cool façade that had never been further from how he actually felt. He wouldn't let Greg see the mess he was in. He couldn't.

"I'll be the judge of that, Greg. You? Or him?" The jerk of Greg's head in Sherlock's direction was all the answer John required. He stormed over to the sofa but stopped short of dragging Sherlock upright and paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Sherlock deigned to at least turn over and face him.

"And when were _you_ going to inform me that you'd been injured?" John demanded.

"I wasn't. It was a superficial cut and didn't require stitching."

"In whose expert opinion?"

"Mine, of course. Lestrade dealt with it."

"Did he, by God?" John closed his eyes for a moment, fists clenched tightly at his sides until his nails dug into his palms. Hopefully Greg and Sherlock would read his reaction purely as anger from being deceived and not as the creeping panic and terror that was the reality. The fear – and increasing certainty – that what he had 'seen' was the truth and not just the product of his imagination was almost overwhelming.

"John, I…"

"Stay out of this," John spat out in Greg's direction. He was not in the mood to be dealing with an apologetic Greg, not when all he wanted to do was deck him for daring to _touch_ Sherlock. John took a step backwards and slowly, carefully, unclenched his fists.

"I'm fine, John."

"Well, forgive me if I don't believe you, Sherlock. If you don't get that coat off in the next minute and let me look at that 'cut', I'll take it off for you and I might not be very gentle about it."

He didn't mention that he probably wouldn't want to stop at the coat, and hoped those particular unprofessional thoughts didn't show too clearly in his face.

John was surprised when Sherlock only muttered a vague and unintelligible protest as he complied. The coat was carefully laid aside and Sherlock turned back to face him as he sat on the edge of the sofa. He hadn't removed the waistcoat but the knife slice through the mesh of the t-shirt and the neat, white dressing were clearly visible.

Visible, and in exactly the position John had expected, had _seen_. Jesus.

The only leavening factor in the morass of his feelings was that there was just the merest pinprick of bloody strike-through onto the dressing, which meant, in all fairness, that Sherlock was probably right and that if John did remove the dressing, he'd end up disturbing the wound and cause it to bleed again. Not a good idea, by any stretch of the imagination. Be that as it may, he still wanted, needed, to be sure so he stretched out a hand and pushed the waistcoat off Sherlock's shoulder to expose more of the damaged t-shirt and the dressing beneath. With careful fingers he explored the skin around the dressing and – very gently – the wound area itself; there was no swelling under the dressing and no unhealthy heat in the surrounding skin that he could feel. All appeared to be well, which meant that Greg had actually done a reasonable job. Sherlock didn't flinch at the probing touch and didn't say anything to distract John from his examination, which was a relief as he didn't think he could have dealt with any of Sherlock's smart-arsery. He paused for a moment and laid his hand on Sherlock's chest. The beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his fingers calmed him, until he realised his touch echoed the one he'd 'seen' Greg make earlier, before…

John removed his hand as if he'd been burned and almost yanked the waistcoat back into position.

"You'll do," he said to Sherlock, then turned, reluctantly, towards Greg. Certain things had to be said, no matter what he was feeling. "Thank you for taking care of him. I appreciate it." He did, truly, though it was kind of hard work to convince himself of the fact. That he found some small comfort in knowing that Greg would keep an eye on Sherlock in more ways than one when he was no longer there only served to demonstrate how deeply Sherlock had wormed his way under John's skin.

Greg shrugged. "Old habit. Until you came along, no-one else could be bothered."

John could have done without being reminded of the years of history Greg had with Sherlock. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then headed back into the kitchen in an effort to avoid speaking to or looking at either of them. Sherlock also remained silent.

John heard the jingle that betrayed Greg's movement and looked up to find he'd disappeared from view. There was a faint murmur from the living room, followed by a terse and incomprehensible grunt. He turned his attention to the ritual of tea-making and didn't even attempt to make out what Greg had said to Sherlock, he felt it was better not to know. Another jingle broke his concentration and when he turned around he was surprised to find Greg hovering at the side of the kitchen entrance closest to the flat door.

"It's late, I'd best be going," Greg said. He cast a glance in Sherlock's direction, then back at John. "Tell himself thanks for his help when he's in a better mood, won't you?"

"Of course."

Greg turned to go, then spun back around to face John. He looked… concerned. Great. That was all John needed.

"Are _you_ OK, John?"

"I'm fine. Really. Nothing that a bit of sleep won't sort out." It wasn't quite an untruth, John was sure his head would be a lot more together once he wasn't so stupid with exhaustion and emotion.

"As long as you're sure?" John gave Greg another brisk nod, wanting him to get the hell out sooner rather than later. Greg didn't look entirely convinced but he appeared to accept John's assertion. "I'll be seeing you, then."

John saw him to the door, but it wasn't out of politeness; he wanted to lock it behind Greg just to make sure he didn't return. Tired or not, he and Sherlock were going to have to talk, and there was no way he could wait until morning, not any more.


	5. Chapter 5

~ Chapter 5 ~

He collapsed against the door after he'd locked it. It was solid at his back and he leaned his head against it, grateful for its support as he closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Somehow – somewhere – he had to find the courage he needed in order to breach Sherlock's obstructive silence, even though he had no idea what the fuck he was going to say. Maybe he'd just open his mouth and see what words fell out without his conscious control, he doubted he could make things any worse.

A quick glance in Sherlock's direction revealed him to be carefully _not_ looking over at the door. That didn't mean he hadn't observed John's distress. Hell, he could even be waiting for his imminent collapse so he could catalogue the different ways in which John fell apart. He would have to wait a long time, John decided, determined that he wouldn't give Sherlock that satisfaction. All he had to do was pull himself together, develop a bit more backbone and speak. That was all. All. He could do it. He made a concentrated effort to slow his breathing, to really be aware of the passage of air into his lungs and let some of the anxiety leave his body with each breath. In. Hold. Out. Gradually, he felt his panic subside into something more manageable, something that would at least let him stand unaided, and, if he was lucky, make it safely to his chair.

Gaining that refuge had never seemed to be such a difficult task to accomplish as it was now and John was amazed that he didn't stumble even once in the process, as he'd half expected to go arse over elbow and end up in an undignified heap on the floor. The chair seemed to welcome him with its unassuming familiarity. He let himself relax slightly, just enough that the screaming tension in his back and shoulders didn't transmute into literal pain. He couldn't afford that distraction – he was distracted enough already.

Eventually, John realised that he was as composed as he was going to get and that he really couldn't let the silence stretch out any longer. It had been a surprise when Sherlock had refrained from interjecting any 'helpful' comments into the quietness between them but John had been grateful for the reprieve. He still didn't know what he was going to say, especially when he appeared to have precious little control over his thoughts – they were still careering around in his head like some sort of demented carousel.

Maybe he should just start with tonight, with what he had physically seen and take it from there. He gave a resigned nod, decision made; it was as good a place as any to make his stand.

John raised his head and let his eyes drift towards the sofa. Sherlock hadn't moved but was regarding him with the sort of intensity that he generally reserved for only the most interesting of corpses. It was… disquieting to have that sort of focus turned on himself, especially when just one glance at Sherlock had been enough to derail his train of thought yet again. He wanted to leap out of his chair, march across the room and _grab_ Sherlock just to get some sort of reaction from him, to crack that icy demeanour, even if it was just for a moment. John wasn't sure whether he would shake him or shove his tongue down his throat once he got there, either was equally possible. He remained seated, fingers clamped together in his lap as if they might reach out to Sherlock under their own volition if he didn't keep them restrained.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

John cleared his throat. Why hadn't he finished making that tea? He really could do with something to concentrate on besides Sherlock. Never mind, he was used to working creatively with limited resources so he'd manage with what he had – even if all that comprised was an overloaded brain, the dread that his two best friends were decidedly more than friends and that he wanted one of them to be… well, he wanted. End of. Which was the root of the problem, right there.

"You and Lestrade…"

"Lestrade and I, what, exactly?" Sherlock's intense gaze didn't falter. It didn't make things any easier.

"Looked…"

_Like sex on legs. Both of you. Maybe that's why all the alt people I know seem so… fluid… in their sexuality; they all look so damn… edible._

"…good tonight. You make a…"

_Fuckable. Yeah, definitely fuckable. All that leather. PVC. Legs. And skin. Mustn't forget the skin… Lick it. Bite it. Mark it. Oh Jesus God help me…_

"… striking couple."

"A couple. Really."

"Yes. You…"

_Couldn't keep your hands off him. That's not like you. And as for him..._

"…obviously care a lot about each other."

"Lestrade cares." Sherlock gave a sinuous wriggle that John decided was supposed to be a shrug but managed to burn out a few more neurons in his brain in the process. He was staring, he knew he was, but he really couldn't give a flying fuck any more – Sherlock demanded the stare with every breath, every blink, every beat of his unfathomable heart.

"Umm," John agreed.

"But then, Lestrade cares for everyone; including you, John. I merely appreciate that care."

Was that a smile? Was fucking Sherlock Holmes fucking smiling at him while he fucked with his head? Kill him. He'd kill him. Though he might have to kiss him first, get at least some satisfaction before he was incarcerated for life.

"You. He. Tonight..."

"You see, but you don't _observe_. How many times have I told you that?"

Sherlock was just being his usual supercilious self but it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, taking the remnants of John's self-control with it.

"Observe? I'll give you observing - and you can shove it right where it bloody hurts!" John heaved himself out of his chair and propelled himself across the room, unsure of what he was going to do, only to find his path blocked by his very goal. Sherlock.

Sherlock, who smiled at him. Smiled. Fucking arsehole. Who clasped John's trip-wire taut shoulders in a gentle grip and gave him a minuscule shake.

"Think. What did you see tonight? With your eyes, John, and not with your imagination… or your heart."

Oh holy fuck, Sherlock knew. He'd seen – observed – and he _knew_ and there was no way that John could tear himself away. Instead, he tried to do what Sherlock asked, not exactly the easiest task when his fingers were burning into John's shoulders, providing yet another distraction, as if John _needed_ another one.

John replayed the earlier part of the night in his head, tried to step back from it and see it as an outsider, not as someone who had suddenly discovered he was a hell of a lot more emotionally invested in a person than he'd previously realised.

It was no good. The touches, the smiles, the easy banter had all pointed in a direction that John really didn't like and he didn't think he could retreat from that standpoint. However, Sherlock had _asked_ and John was unable to refuse a direct request from him, even if what came out of his mouth made no sense.

"Too much touching," he said. Then the floodgates opened and sod only using his eyes, he let them drift shut and allowed the words to flow. "You never permit people to touch you unnecessarily, you always hold yourself aloof from too-close contact. Even from me. I'm your bloody flat mate – your _doctor_ – and you never _ever_ react like that to me! One bloody touch from Greg and you were purring like a fucking cat who'd got the cream. And he.. he just…" John ran out of steam. He realised he was breathless and that Sherlock _still_ had hold of his shoulders, though his grip could no longer be called gentle; his fingers dug into John hard enough that his touch was only a breath away from being painful. Which was fine. He opened his eyes again, to discover that he was no longer being held at arm's length and that Sherlock's face was a hell of a lot closer than it had been.

"Lestrade cares," Sherlock repeated, softly. "And I appreciate that care, though I usually don't demonstrate the fact. Sometimes he just needs a little _more_ than that from me to enable him to function at his best in a difficult situation. That's all it was, John. Nothing more." Sherlock gave him another little shake, as if he was trying to _make_ John believe him. It didn't work.

"I don't believe you."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Sherlock sighed, close enough that John could feel it dance across his skin. "Maybe you'll believe this…"


	6. Chapter 6

~ Chapter 6 ~

The press of Sherlock's mouth against his own was unexpected – startling – but very definitely not unwelcome, and never would be.

It was awkward at first, a clash of teeth and tongues, the bruising push of lips, like being devoured by something feral. But, John wasn't in the mood to surrender, not after the night he'd had. He was in the mood to claim.

He poured himself savagely into the kiss, trying to communicate everything he was, everything he _felt_ with tender brutality; his pain, his obsession, his uncomfortable jealousy and his unlooked for desire, all wrapped up in his sheer need to _make_ Sherlock understand without the use of inadequate words. It was no gentle first kiss between tentative lovers, it was a battle with John screaming 'this is who I am, this is what I want' in the only way he felt was left to him, bringing into play all the passion that he usually kept safely locked away.

To his utmost joy, and utter surprise, Sherlock responded in kind, seemingly happy that John had wrested control of the kiss, and content to follow his lead. John was lost in the wet, sucking, biting heat of Sherlock's mouth. Never in a million years would he have anticipated such deliciously bold ferocity from him, not when he'd assumed – obviously wrongly – that Sherlock would view an expression of such physical need as distasteful at best. He'd never been so glad to be proved wrong.

John was hot, so hot, it felt as if he was being burned alive - scorching skin and warm mouths and fire flashing through his veins. The anger and hurt and resentment of the night were melting off into desire, need and want. He felt Sherlock's hands leave his shoulders, slide up and up and into his hair, but John was having none of that, either. He allowed Sherlock to control just about everything else in his life, but not this, not now.

His old combat training resurfaced and he used his own hands to break the hold, taking advantage of Sherlock's momentary confusion to pivot their bodies and slam them into the wall. And, fuck, yes, this was so much better because now they were pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip. John tilted his hips, just a fraction, and… fuck... _Right there_. The friction was perfect, dragging along his dick and sending sparks along his spine. He was surprised, thrilled, to feel the long smooth line of Sherlock's cock straining against his fly, and at the sounds Sherlock made as John tightened his grip and pulled him in closer.

"John," Sherlock gasped, as he thrust against him, and it became obvious pretty damn quickly that there were entirely too many bloody clothes separating them. There would be time later for niceties and finesse, but desperation was riding John hard, causing him to fumble with Sherlock's fly, and he was getting nowhere fast. Finally, fucking finally, he managed to get it open. He made quick work of his own, and they slid together, cocks bumping against each other, trapped between their bodies.

There was a scramble of hands, as each reached for the other's cock. They gave up on kissing, foreheads falling to each other's shoulders, gasping breaths and moans lost in the crooks of necks. Sherlock smelled like smoke, sweat and sex and John breathed him in like a man dying from oxygen deprivation. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's dick and began to work the foreskin up and down, exposing the head on each down-stroke. Sherlock followed his lead, long deft fingers stroking, squeezing, burning like tongues of fire against him. They found a rhythm, a kind of dance where hands collided and knuckles grazed, with John's hand moving, slip sliding skin on skin and Sherlock's thumb brushing just the right place on the underside of John's dick. John felt like he was hurtling towards a head-on collision without considering the outcome. It was reckless; _perfect_ and he had no idea if he would survive, nor whether he cared.

"God, yes, Sherlock. Just there," he moaned against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock obliged him and kept his hand moving at a steady pace while his teeth and tongue began an exploration of John's ear, nipping at the lobe, licking around the shell and dipping inside briefly, his breath heavy, damp and warm against John's skin. He shuddered, which drew a laugh from Sherlock, a deep rumble in his chest that John felt right down to his toes.

It was the laugh that tipped him over the edge into the abyss and he fell, hard. John's orgasm slammed into him with unprecedented force and his knees buckled as he came all over himself, Sherlock's hand and the lust-provoking PVC trousers. Seeing the evidence of his spent desire splattered stark and white across the shiny PVC was enough to make his cock attempt to give one last twitch of interest. He was filled with a sort of giddy possessiveness which made his heart constrict, and feelings like _mine_, _claim_ and _always_ rose up unbidden to burn unsaid behind his lips.

John reached up, splayed one hand against Sherlock's jaw, and watched him fall apart, his lip caught between his teeth and head bouncing against the wall in time to the jerking of John's other hand on his dick. John wasn't sure whether he'd seen anything so compelling, so erotic in his life. He rubbed his palm over Sherlock's slit, using the pre-come to ease his way, moving faster, gripping tighter. Sherlock trembled and pressed himself hard against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Come on, Sherlock. Just let go."

It was as if Sherlock had been waiting for that command, for someone to take over and break him apart, to let him shatter and fall into pieces. A strangled groan escaped his lips as he came, coating John's hand as he drove into John's fist, riding the wave of his orgasm to the end. Sherlock slumped against the wall, his eyes glazed and his breath coming in heaving gasps. John let his thumb brush across Sherlock's parted lips before he moved his hand to rest against the wall, he seriously needed the extra support it provided. His other hand was a sticky mess of rapidly cooling come and he debated adding handprints to Sherlock's abused PVC trousers, but decided against it when Sherlock wobbled precariously. His own jeans were also a mess so John carelessly wiped his hand on a clear patch of denim, shifting slightly to accommodate the movement more easily.

Sherlock's knees finally gave way and he crumpled to the floor, an elegant heap of dishevelled clothes. He looked completely satisfied and much more comfortable than John, who still had his hand braced flat against the wall in order to keep himself from falling down. He glanced down at Sherlock, who was sprawled on the floor looking utterly debauched, and decided that remaining upright in the face of what had just happened was too damn difficult. Joining Sherlock on the floor seemed like a much better idea than hanging onto the wall, alone. He gently eased himself down and settled against Sherlock's side.


	7. Chapter 7

~Chapter 7~

It was good to lie there, even though the floor was not exactly the most comfortable place, to breathe in the heady and unfamiliar scent of Sherlock and sex combined, to enjoy the heat between them where their bodies pressed close against each other and forget about the world for a while. But soon – far too soon – the world, and reality, intruded and John found it increasingly difficult to ignore the clamour of his whirling thoughts.

He hitched himself up on one elbow and let his gaze sweep over Sherlock from his artfully messy hair, across his face, and down his body until his eyes were caught by the mess he'd made of the PVC trousers. A smile tugged at his mouth, almost reluctantly, and John had to admit that no matter what the fallout from this night happened to be, he would never forget the sight of Sherlock sprawled on the floor, dishevelled, debauched, sexy as hell and covered in John's come. If he was lucky, he would also never have cause to regret it. A quick glance demonstrated that Sherlock's eyes were shut, the blue glitter and eyeliner stark against his flushed, but still pale skin.

He reached out a tentative hand to brush across Sherlock's hip, but Sherlock's eyelids didn't even flicker in response to his touch. He swallowed and took a deep breath, he had to say something but he wasn't quite sure _what_ to say, not when he didn't really know – besides the obvious physical evidence – what had happened and what it meant.

"Sherlock, just what the hell was that?"

"Something that needed to happen. Obviously."

Sherlock's eyes remained firmly closed, as if the question did not merit his full attention. Maybe it didn't, to him, but to John it was pretty damn important. He wanted, no, _needed_, to know if it would change things between them. If he was honest, he was very definitely interested in things changing between them, as long as it was due to increased intimacy and not because Sherlock decided he never wanted to set eyes on him again. John sighed; there was nothing for it, he would have to bloody well _ask_ and hope that Sherlock didn't cut him down.

"That's all very well, but... " his voice petered out, there were so many potential conclusions swirling around in his head. Most of them were not good and involved various reasons for one or the other of them having to leave Baker Street. He took another breath and tried again, "Where do we go from here?" John hated how uncertain he sounded, but there was no way he could voice his concern and sound confident about the outcome, not when it meant so much to him.

Sherlock's eyes opened, but his expression didn't change from the relaxed half-smile he'd been wearing since he landed on the floor. John took that as a good sign.

"Bed," Sherlock said.

"Bed?" John almost squeaked in reply, it was kind of embarrassing but in his defence he could say it wasn't exactly the answer he'd been expecting and he certainly hadn't been prepared for it – or his reaction.

"Preferably mine."

"Your bed?"

"I believe that is what I said, yes." The half-smile on Sherlock's face had graduated to a full-on smirk, he was obviously enjoying having wrong-footed John, though John really couldn't bring himself to care about that, not when it was essentially an invitation. He still didn't quite believe it.

"Your bed? Both of us?"

"Yes John, my bed, both of us. I doubt either of us could manage the stairs at present." Sherlock had a point, John's legs still felt like jelly. Which meant it was probably just a convenient but unusually courteous offer to a friend, and he was reading a deeper meaning into it than Sherlock intended. John's heart plummeted again and he shifted away from Sherlock, putting some distance between them.

"I don't think…" John began, only to be interrupted by Sherlock grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer again.

"You're thinking too much, for a change. Perhaps this will provide some clarification of my intent." Sherlock tugged hard on his wrist which caused John to sprawl across him. He drew a breath to voice a protest but the slide of Sherlock's lips against his and Sherlock's hands in his hair stole it away and made him breathless yet again. It wasn't a hungry and desperate kiss like they'd shared earlier but, as Sherlock had assured, there was no mistaking the intent behind its gentle thoroughness. John's only complaint was that the kiss didn't last long enough, but even so, it seemed to have robbed him of intelligent speech.

"Um. Ah," he stuttered, and settled for giving Sherlock a huge grin instead of trying to make semi-appropriate noises. Sherlock returned the grin with a slow and lazy, but almost feral, smile that warmed the cold places in John's heart. He decided tomorrow could go hang, he would do what he had been doing since he'd first met Sherlock; rush headlong after him wherever he led and damn the consequences.

"Bed?" Sherlock asked once more. John felt the word as a puff of breath across his skin as much as he heard it. He leant in with a quick brush of lips, it was as much an answer as anything else, but then Sherlock frowned at him and he couldn't help but chuckle as he hauled himself upright. It seemed a verbal answer was demanded and of course there was only one possible response.

"Why not?" John held out his hand and Sherlock took it, the smile on his face now incandescent.

To hell with the fact that, down the line, this might turn out to have not been a good idea; they could worry about that another time. Right now, it was what they both wanted and that was enough for John.

~E~

**A/N 2**: Thanks for sticking with us! We have one last thing to share... Hearts Filthy Mess, The Fanmix! Can be listened to while reading along, or just on its own, and it kind of tells the same story as the fic. Listen to what helped inspire us! Interested? Then visit mandatorily's place www [.] mandatorily [.] live journal [.] com [/] 113736 [.] html and ENJOY.


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